On Leave from France
by Belfast Docks
Summary: He is only on leave, only for a week, and then he must return to the lines. Mary/Dickon


**Author's Note:** A shot-in-the-dark at Edwardian England and WWI, with Dickon x Mary fluff, mixed with some angst. Nearly all of my _Secret Garden_ fanfiction are separate ideas but do not go together in the same timeline - however, this piece does have a sequel, _Aftermath_, which is an insanely long chapter story. I was not expecting it to become as long as it has.

~BD

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**On Leave from France**

* * *

The city is a maze of streets and vehicles and people, moving to and fro like tides beneath the full moon. Soot hangs in the air; for this is London, and everything is dirty and drab. There are no pristine hills covered in heather, with sheep meandering about. There is no calm, no silence. The only flowers here are those that grow in tight, neat rows along the edges of the walks leading to grand homes owned by the wealthy, or in tiny window boxes.

He makes his way nervously through the streets, narrowly avoiding honking vehicles and jabbering groups of ladies. He wonders if London is worse than France, and decides he hates both. London is too hectic and confusing, and in France, his comrades are dying and the war has dragged on for so long that the original focus seems tainted, somehow.

He is only on leave, only for a week, and then he must return to the lines. He dreads returning, dreads that he may never make it home alive, dreads being killed so mercilessly, dreads being buried in a mass grave without anyone knowing where he is. Bile tickles the back of his throat as he thinks of dying in such a fashion, and he desperately tries to think of something else, though it seems an impossible task.

And so, quickly, to avoid these thoughts, he looks down at the crumpled piece of stationary he holds in clenched fingers, upon which is an address written in elegant hand. He wonders if he is too contaminated with the blood of men staining his own hands, to see her at this address. Or even ever again, for that matter. And if he _does_ go to this address, should he use the servants' entrance? Because they are, in fact, from two different casts, no matter how things were when they were children. It seems like eons since they were children, without a care in the world. When they only had the moor and a garden to concern themselves with.

In the end, after much deliberation, he decides to approach the front door, because he is currently a soldier and not a servant, and he hopes he will be admitted.

The house she lives within is owned by one of her uncle's wealthy friends; they have accepted her temporary residence with them so that she may complete her education in the city. And likely so she can find a beau suitable to her station in life. So she can have the opportunities she _should_ have, that she would not have in a lonely, dreary place like Thwaite Village.

The doorbell's loud buzz makes him wince; it reminds him vaguely of the horrible noises he hears while on the lines in France. He waits a few seconds, perhaps only ten, before a prim maid in a gray uniform and white apron and frilly cap opens the door and eyes him quizzically, even grudgingly and warily. He stammers in broad dialect, hating the sound of his rough Yorkshire voice, that he should like to see Miss Mary Lennox.

The maid takes his name and at least allows him to enter the foyer past the vestibule, where he can't help but feel immensely out of place and awkward. Then she leaves him there with the instructions that she will return momentarily, and she whisks away.

Left alone, he shifts his weight as he looks about, for he has never entered a mansion like this from the front door before. There are beautiful, priceless vases on pedestals and a settee from the previous era against the grand, wide staircase, large portraits of men and women on the walls in gilded frames, and Persian rugs upon the polished hardwood floors. Just one small fraction of the finery he sees, he could not afford.

And just as he wonders if he has made a huge mistake and should perhaps leave, _she_ appears on the grand stairs, wearing a beautiful dress of pale pink that makes the drab, darker fashions of the war years seem as absolutely awful as they really are. It doesn't hang limp and shapeless on her as many of the day's dresses hang on women; instead, it fits her in all the right places, snug about her bodice and showing off eye-catching, yet subtle curves he doesn't remember from when last they saw each other, over a year ago. Her silken hair hangs in curls of sunshine down her shoulders, reminding him of _home_, and her eyes are wide and hopeful – more hopeful than he deserves, because she is a lady and he is a commoner.

Before he can voice this fact and apologize for coming, she is flying down the stairs and into his body. Her arms are suddenly about him and her face is pressed into his neck; she is gasping his name in soft sobs, and he feels her lips press against his tanned skin like a burning brand in her relief that he is _safe_, at least for that moment. It is not a real kiss, not the way he wishes it could be, and he is saddened by that thought as much as he is saddened by all the other thoughts he has had lately.

Her breathing finally slows and she explains tearily that she has been so worried, so anxious for him, so desperate for each letter he sends her. That she can hardly sleep nights, knowing he could be killed at any moment, and wondering if another letter will come on the morrow or if the one she just received will be the last. How she longs to return to Yorkshire, where there is no threat of German air raids just yet and the air is clean and fresh; how sometimes she is truthfully_scared_ to live in London, even to complete her education, because one never knows if or when the Central Powers will bomb the city in a full-scale, all-out attack. And how she can't possibly tell her uncle that, because then he would worry, and she doesn't want to worry him unnecessarily, because he has too much on his mind as it is.

He cannot believe she feels this way. She puts such things in her letters, but it isn't quite the same as hearing her actually say them aloud. He is afraid the family she is staying with will disapprove of the way she has wrapped herself around him, no matter how wonderful it feels, so he quietly tells her that he only stopped by to say hello while he was on leave.

She will hear none of his feeble excuses however, for she can see right through him just as she always could. Wearing her most contrary expression, she resolutely drags him to a smaller parlor near the back of the house where she claims they will have privacy. She rings for tea and gives another maid a fierce look when the woman gapes at the two of them – the beautiful young lady and the weary soldier who looks dead on his feet, pinched from hunger, and utterly exhausted.

As soon as the door closes behind them, leaving them completely alone, she turns those pretty blue-gray eyes to his and sighs softly, reaches up, and traces a light pattern down his cheek.

"You've changed," she whispers, as her fingertips linger on his chin, just below his lips. He can hardly breathe for her nearness and the feathery touch, but then she adds dolefully, with an adorable pout, "I fear you've seen so much of the world that you won't _want_ a sour little girl from India, any more."

The very thought is so absurd that his heart twists and his chest feels tight with hopeful emotion; he blindly cups her cheek and kisses her gently on the mouth before he can stop himself. He's wanted to kiss her for ages, and her lips are as soft and full as he's always dreamed of them being, while he lies in the mud along the duckboards, wishing the shelling would stop so he could think straight for once, so that he wouldn't have to shoot and kill, so that he wouldn't have to go over the top and risk his life again and again for muddled politics.

She seems surprised for only the briefest second, before melting into him and kissing him back. The emotion that rocked him to the core now makes him draw back, and hoarsely, he whispers, "I canna imagine wantin' any other lass. Not ever...!"

She sighs softly against his lips. "Oh! Really? That is nice to know. But to think, I expected our first kiss would be in the garden! We'll have to see about that later, shall we?"

And as though suddenly burned, he quickly apologizes. He should not have kissed her, especially not _here_, where he is a guest and she under the care of her uncle's friends. He shouldn't have kissed her _all_, to be honest, because she is a lady. What has come over him? He cannot blame the war, because he should be the same in essentials as he ever was, despite what he has had to do for his country.

But she is still contrary, and before he can continue to tell her he's sorry for what he's done, she cups her hand behind his neck, into his soft hair that has been trimmed neatly by army regulation, pulls him back to her, and kisses him firmly, softly, _longingly_ on his lips. He groans from sheer need, from sheer exhaustion and from sheer desire; he shifts the angle and Mary follows him, whimpering as she slides closer – almost _into_ his lap, which causes him to groan again. His hands circle her tiny waist, her lips slide against his, touching and tasting as though she has wanted to do this for years and years, her fingers caressing the rough material of his jacket, and he wishes that perhaps this kiss could have really been in her beautiful garden – while she was in a cotton garden frock and he was wearing trousers and a button down shirt that she could have gotten her hands beneath more quickly. And he thanks God that he has now kissed her at least once before he returns to France, because if he dies now, he will at least have had this much.

And then the door opens and he hears Colin cry out – first in excitement that he is safe, and then shock as he sees his cousin in such a position with a_gardener_.

He stands up quickly, detangling himself from Mary, who is suddenly flushed and embarrassed. He begins to stammer his apologies to his friend, but after a moment, Colin gives them both a satisfied smirk and closes the door with a snap, only to say, "About time, really. And don't you dare get killed over there, or Mary shall likely die of a broken heart."

He can only gape at Colin then, and Mary laughs beautifully despite her pink cheeks, and tugs at his hand to make him sit back down on the sofa with her.

"I do hope you've ordered tea, Mary," Colin adds sarcastically, as he takes a seat in one of the tall wingback chairs opposite of them, crossing his legs like a gentleman. He looks much older now, much wiser and worldly, and yet he is only seventeen. "A soldier needs more than kisses to survive. He likely needs a good square meal; he's as thin as a rail! And t' think, he was once th' strongest lad in Yorkshire!"

He blushes at Colin's flippancy and use of dialect. "I've never kissed her before now, I assure you!" he starts, but before he can add that he _isn't weak_, Colin laughs and cuts him off.

"I'm sorry I've walked in upon it, then. How long are you on leave?"

Sullenly, he mutters, "Jus' for th' week."

Mary's shoulders slump at this, and he places his larger hand on her tiny, dainty one. It looks so clumsy and awkward there, but her skin is burning hot, just as her kisses were, and he suddenly wishes Colin _would_ leave them alone.

Colin, however, seems unaware of this fact. He continues on, as though ignoring both, "Then you will have time to see each other before Dickon returns to France, Mary. You should take him to one of the gardens outside of town, at the very least. It would do him good to see gardens."

"Oh, but you never change, do you? You are _such_ a Rajah, ordering people about!" Mary snaps, turning a reproachful gaze to her cousin. "I will do whatever Dickon wishes to do, and nothing less!"

"I jus' wish to rest, Miss Mary. An' spend some time wit' thee, if tha'll let me."

"Of course I want you to spend time with me! And you may leave off the 'Miss', as well!"

They have little time to argue however, for the door opens once more, and the maid rolls in a beautifully carved teacart. He can smell hot crumpets and tea cookies and cake, and his mouth waters unexpectedly. The scent reminds him of _home_, of his mother's tiny cottage in Yorkshire with too many brothers and sisters, and he cannot stop the onrush of emotion.

Mary notices the way his eyes must have changed, and asks him what is wrong; as soon as the maid curtsies and exits, he nods to the lovely tray and whispers, "Reminds me o' home, it does. O' mother's oatcakes." He gives her a weary smile, forcing himself not to cry.

"You'll be discharged soon enough," Colin says bracingly. "And we'll go back to Yorkshire with you. I confess; I miss your mother's oatcakes, as well! And Mary positively loathes London, though I must confess I do enjoy it myself."

Mary smiles at him hopefully, and for a fleeting instant, he thinks everything might turn out all right one day, after all.

The conversation then lapses into easy talk; they discuss mundane things while eating – how much all three wish to return to their childhood home, and wondering if the secret garden has grown even wilder as they haven't been there to tend it in so many months. They talk of school and studies and they touch on the war every so often, but never for too long, he notices. He also notices that they are still talking to him as an equal, as though he was never a common moor lad or a servant or a sergeant. They speak to him as if he is one of them, which he never has been, and it is temporarily confusing.

So, when Mary suggests again that they visit a fine park in London the next day, he says, "Eh, but those gardens Mester Colin spoke o' do sound graidley. I should like t' see 'em."

Colin twitches convulsively. "And you can leave off the bloody 'Master' as well, damn it."

It is then that he _knows_ they are indeed treating him like one of them. He wonders what the change is, if it would be the same in Yorkshire as it is in London. Wouldn't that be a wonder, he thinks. And yet, he cannot imagine it.

"What are you thinking of?" Colin asks him, seeing his silence and thoughtful expression.

"I t'was thinkin' that thee is treatin' me as though I were one o' thysen," he says quietly, his gaze still distant. "And afore I came t'day, I wondered if I shouldn' use the servants' door instead o' th' front door."

Mary and Colin glance at each other in surprise, and Mary says, "You're never to use the servants' door again. Not even when we return to Yorkshire."

He turns to stare at her, utterly stunned.

"Mary is right, Dickon." Colin is serious now, almost a full-grown man, always a rajah. "Times are changing. Things are different, now."

"Eh, hardly. There have been wars before. Why should this one change things?" he asks, almost roughly.

The glint in the heir of Misselthwaite's eyes is fierce, and he says sharply, "I won't have a _decorated soldier_ using a _servants' entrance_. I suppose Mary hasn't noticed those wounded stripes yet, but _I_ have."

At this, Mary gasps aloud in shock and grasps his arm, and he tenses at her reaction. She stammers incoherently when she sees the badge, and he diverts his eyes quickly. He doesn't want to explain to her how he came by those awful stripes; doesn't want to think about how if the bullet had entered his body at a different angle it would have been fatal, when in fact all it did was graze his ribs and exit cleanly. He doesn't want to think about how damned lucky he was. When all that happened was that he got sent to a field hospital five miles behind the third line and have the wound cleaned and bandaged, and after a good rest he was sent back to the third line to begin rotations again.

Colin continues darkly, "I also notice you never mentioned that in any of your letters. But never mind. Back to what I was saying: Even if you had not been a soldier, times are still changing, and things are different now. It's a new era."

"Not in Thwaite. When I return to the manor, I'll be an under-gardener again, and –"

"Hardly," Colin retorts, cutting him off. "You may garden if you wish, because you enjoy it. And if anything, you'll be head gardener – I hear Roach is intending on retiring soon, and Ben is far too old and deaf these days. But if you wish to study in the library or roam the moors or lie on the lawn and do absolutely bloody nothing, then no one is going to stop you or even care! You may do whatever you please. I shall see to your salary, of course. You have seen more than we ever shall, and we don't forget all you have done for us, either."

Determined to keep some dignity in the battle of wills, he said stubbornly, "I shall be a gardener again. I wish t' make things grow, Colin. If I can remember how." He pauses, then whispers, "Eh! But I'm so exhausted from seein' everything _destroyed_. I think I have forgotten how things can be wick."

Mary and Colin exchange sad glances, before Colin rises and says quietly, "Once you are in Yorkshire again, you will remember. Now. I apologize, but I have classes in an hour; I'm afraid I have to go. Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Aye, I hope so."

"Good." Colin nods, smiles, and takes his leave – leaving his cousin alone with the soldier.

For a moment, the two share a special, though sad look, before Mary kisses him on the mouth.

"Come on," she murmurs, sliding closer. "We should visit those gardens now, I think. I'll order a cab."

And as she rings the bell for a maid again, he hopes they will have more chances to visit gardens. He hopes he will return from France again for her, so they can visit as many gardens as possible.

**~FIN~**


End file.
